At sunrise one Friday in late Spring, I squeezed through a fence by Shubra metro station and headed along the train tracks towards Alexandria. Over my shoulder was a bag full of water and date biscuits, beside me was my friend Shorok and ahead of us spread the Nile Delta. Our feet soon tired of the unforgiving gravel, so we crossed over to a path that ran alongside fields of mint. A woman who was tying small bundles of the stuff cocked her head as we passed: “What are you? Journalists?” she laughed to herself as we marched on. Several hours later, we approached a group of workers and in the full boldness of thirst asked for some tea. A woman sitting cross-legged by a water pump gestured for us to sit down and wash our feet. Her daughter, a girl of about eighteen, sat gently rocking a baby in her arms. The girl’s husband arrived with a load of mint on his back, he said hello and set about making a fire. An old man emerged from the field on a donkey, took off his trousers and settled down…
